Minecraft: Lay of the Land
by CharNobyl
Summary: A man washes ashore on an unknown beach, in a land where the many of nature's laws have been bent and even broken. There are allies to be had, but would numbers be a strength or a weakness?
1. Chapter 1

**Short first chapter, but they'll be longer from here on out, assuming I continue the story. **

The newcomer washed up on the western coastline. Soaked to the skin and squinting in the bright morning sun, it took him close to an hour to completely come to. He wiped salt-encrusted eyes and sat up, blearily trying to gather his bearings.

First came confusion. He looked, but he processed little. He saw nothing but endless beach to both his left and his right. Before him was a dense jungle, with mountains cropping up over the heads of the trees.

Next came panic. He pushed himself to his feet as his gestures became frantic. He patted his pockets, hoping his wet trousers would provide some sort of solution to his blight. But he found no phone, and little else. A pack of moist cigarettes, a silver lighter, and a pocketknife. None of them were the means of contact he sought.

Then was despair. He cursed, kicking the sand before dropping to his knees. A few seconds passed, then he felt something dig into his side. With curiosity and apprehension, he dug further into his pockets, finding a palm-sized compass that he didn't recognize. He held it out and tried to find north.

But the red needle only spun in place, as if to reinforce that he had no idea where he was. Calm acceptance finally set in, and what little survival skills he had began to work. It was warm, and the jungle seemed tropical. Was he near the equator? Somewhere in Central or South America, perhaps?

Shaking sand off his sneakers, he started walking toward the jungle. He'd burn up in no time if he didn't seek shade. For now, he considered finding food and shelter his foremost objectives. If he ran into civilization while he did, then he was saved. But until then, he reluctantly thought that planning for the worst would be the best plan

* * *

><p>The hunter watched the newcomer push into the jungle. His movements betrayed his obvious nature: clumsy and loud. The hunter climbed several branches higher, tracking the newcomer from the new vantage point. He kept his bow slung, knowing full well that the newcomer was no threat to him, especially not at this distance.<p>

The hunter's body tensed. The newcomer was stumbling toward a cave, oblivious to the impending danger. The hunter rapidly ascended further up the tree, climbing with the agility of a monkey. When he broke through the canopy, he plucked a mirror from one of the pouches at his waist, angling it in a specific direction and catching the sunlight.

* * *

><p>The veteran caught the glare from the corner of his eye. It blinked in a sequence, and the veteran's eyes widened. He jumped to his feet, grabbing his own mirror shard. He hastily flashed back a message of his own.<p>

He waited a few anxious seconds, then saw two flashes. He forced himself to relax a bit. The matter was out of his hands, even if that very fact put him ill at ease. In his experience, little good ever came from sitting on the sidelines. The hunter would be fine, there was no question of that. What mattered was the newcomer, and how quickly the hunter could intervene. If he made it in time, they had a potential ally. If not, he'd be another body buried just under the island's surface. Or worse: he'd become a feral. The veteran unconsciously ran his hand over the steel cap that covered the stump of his left wrist.

It would be better if the hunter got to him in time. Or at least put him out of his misery.

* * *

><p>The cave was dark, but it was a great deal cooler inside than it was outside. For the newcomer, that was enough. It was dark, but dark was acceptable if it meant being out of the scorching sun. As he pushed further into the cave, what little light there was faded to nearly complete darkness.<p>

The newcomer looked down at his hands with surprise. Somewhere between the beach and the cave, he'd found a short branch and trimmed it with his knife. By the time he'd finally noticed what his hands had been busy doing, he'd already bound a clump of vegetation to the end. He stared at his crude tool in bewilderment, his free hand automatically straying to his pocket. He felt the lump there, finally realizing what he had made.

"It's a torch," he murmured, reaching into his pocket and flicking out his lighter. The dry material at the end went up in a matter of seconds, and he stashed the lighter as the torch slowly illuminated his surroundings.

He'd figure out how exactly he'd _accidentally_ made an improvised torch later. For now, he just wanted to explore the cavern further. His basic survival instincts should have been screaming for him to stop, but pushing on just seemed…natural. Almost the same way he'd crafted the torch without being aware of it, he found himself exploring further even as he debated turning back or continuing.

He froze in place. He heard a clatter from the darkness, beyond the torch's reach. Something tapping against the stone floor, a paced one-two sound pattern. If the newcomer didn't know better, it sounded like footsteps, but the sound itself didn't match. It sounded most like dry wood against stone.

Whatever it was, it was difficult to tell how close it was. The echo made it nearly impossible to estimate the range, but it couldn't have been far. The newcomer took a risk and called out,

"Anyone there?" A moment later, the clattering stopped, but there was no reply. A moment more, and the sound resumed. One-two, one-two…

"Hello?" the newcomer asked again. Still no response. One-two, one-two…

"The hell with it," he muttered, turning around and taking a step back toward the entrance. But after a few meters, he lost his footing on the rock floor. He stumbled, but caught himself before he hit the ground.

It was the error that saved his life. Something hissed over his head as he righted himself, sparking against stone ahead of him. The object fell to the ground and into the torchlight. It was an arrow, crudely made with a piece of shaped flint at the tip of a hand-whittled shaft.

The clattering behind him stopped. The newcomer spun around, holding the torch outward to illuminate the source. His blood ran cold when he saw what stepped into the light, and his mind locked up.

The skeleton had no right standing, much less moving. It was completely stripped of flesh and muscle, and nothing seemed to hold the joints together. And yet it moved, stepping into the torch's range and somehow fixing the newcomer with a piercing gaze in spite of its lack of eyes. Even more frightening was the bow clenched in its bone digits, and the quiver visible through its empty ribcage.

The newcomer's eyes widened as the skeleton reached over its shoulder, drawing a new arrow from the quiver. It notched the arrow against the bowstring and drew it back with the same smoothness of an experienced archer. The bowstring snapped, and the newcomer was dimly aware of the piercing pain that suddenly infected his shoulder. And with the same frightening lack of hesitation, the skeleton drew another arrow to finish the job.

The pain of the arrow wound finally hit him. It compounded with the shock of his attacker's appearance, and the constant anxiety he felt since finding himself ashore on the strange land. It was finally too much for him, and his vision began to fade as his brain shut itself down.

The last thing he saw before passing out was the skeletal archer, notching its second and final arrow.

**Well, that's it for now. Short, I know, but it'll be longer from here on out. This first chapter's short in part because I wanted to get it posted, and in part because it lets me finish on a cliffhanger ;). The characters won't remain nameless, either. **

**Anyhoo, love it or hate it, drop a review, anonymous are accepted. **


	2. Chapter 2

**And here's chapter two. Still a bit short by my usual standards, but I wrote it at 3AM, so I'm happy with what I got out. **

…_tupi…stard…ow tha..._

The newcomer felt the weight of unconsciousness lifting, but the voice was still indistinct. He was dimly aware of the constant feeling of discomfort across his back and legs, and a pressure beneath each arm. He still couldn't see, but he tried to open his mouth to speak.

"Wha…?" he managed, internally cursing his tongue for failing to work properly. The voice spoke again, clearer this time.

"I said 'you're a stupid bastard, know that'."

The newcomer finally realized what he was feeling: he was being dragged. His vision cleared a bit further, seeing the pair of hands holding him under the arms, pulling him along the jungle floor. He also noticed, however, the arrow still protruding from his left shoulder.

"Damnit," he slurred, lolling his head in the general direction of the offending item, "Arrow…"

"Yeah, I know. Fuckin' brilliant observation, Holmes," the voice replied gruffly, dripping with sarcasm, "Your own damn fault to begin with." The newcomer tried to take hold of the arrow, but his arm brushed off the shaft. His grip wasn't taking. The voice, now attached to a shadow that loomed over him, grunted something obscene.

"Fine, if it'll shut you up again." A calloused hand grabbed hold of the arrow, ripping it out with a small stream of blood tracing the head's path. The newcomer gasped from the pain, and the wound began to throb anew.

The voice suddenly cursed, dropping the newcomer from his grip. He heard the _whiz_ of an arrow being loosed, and a hiss of pain and anger from something decidedly not human. Another arrow fired, and this time there was no outcry. The hands grabbed hold of the newcomer once more, and he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>The newcomer's first sight was fire, roaring a few feet from his gaze. In his barely-conscious state, he wondered for a moment if he'd died and gone to hell. After a few seconds, he became more awake, and reasoned that the pain in his shoulder was proof enough that he was still among the living.<p>

"American Spirits!" a voice happily proclaimed. The newcomer managed (with considerable effort) to prop himself up with one arm, looking around the small room until he spotted the voice's source.

"Blast, they're still wet. But a little while to dry, and they'll be right as rain."

The man seemed to be a conflict of age and condition. On one hand, he was old, probably in his seventies. His gray hair nearly reached down to his shoulders, and what parts of his face that weren't covered by his short gray beard was wrinkled like well-worn leather. But on the other hand, he was more powerfully built than some men half his age. Bronzed skin covered toned muscles, and he placed the newcomer's pack of cigarettes near the fire with a hand that could palm a man's head.

Perhaps the most distinct trait of the old man was his left arm. Where wrist ought to have given way to a hand, there was a polished steel cap that covered the wrist's stump and part of his forearm. The old man noticed that the newcomer was awake, and smiled warmly.

"Glad to see that you're up. You're fortunate: the first night has claimed men far stronger than you, but you made it through."

"I…" the newcomer started, but swiftly realized that he couldn't even begin to prioritize the list of questions in his head, "Are those my smokes?"

"These?" the old man laughed, "Indeed they are. I was hoping you'd at least be kind enough to share. I haven't had a decent smoke in months."

"That's…that's fine," the newcomer answered uncertainly, "I was sorta trying to quit anyway. Where…?"

"Ah, where are my manners? You're probably confused, not to mention parched," the old man hastily stood up, grabbing a heavily-faded canteen from a hook on the wall, "Where we are doesn't matter as much as you'd think, though." He tossed the newcomer the canteen. He hesitantly unscrewed the cap, trying to take a whiff of the contents without the old man noticing. From the smirk that spread across one side of his face, the old man certainly did see.

"I'll take a few swigs, if that'll make you feel better about it."

"No, it's just…" the newcomer trailed off, finally taking a drink from the canteen. The water was already cool, but felt all the more so because of his dry throat. He took a few gulps before resealing it, not wanting to drink it all at once for fear of wasting it or simply appearing rude.

"I s'pose this would all be pretty strange to you," the old man crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, "My first few days were one weird thing after another. Sharps said he pulled you out of a cave, so I can imagine what you ran into." The newcomer's mind suddenly clicked.

"The other man I saw, is that-?"

"Sharps?" the old man raised an eyebrow, "Dead aim with a bow, curses like a sailor? That'd be him. He's out somewhere, but I expect he'll be back soon."

"I never really got a chance to thank him," the newcomer involuntarily ran a hand over his bandaged shoulder. The old man snorted in reply.

"No need for that. As far as he's concerned, you'll have repaid him so long as you don't go feral." The newcomer looked at him with obvious confusion. The old man straightened his back, then extended his remaining hand to the newcomer.

"I keep forgetting you're new here. C'mon, lemme show you a bit."

The newcomer accepted the hand, pulling himself up before realizing that he had done so with his left arm. What surprised him was the lack of pain in his shoulder, where he fully expected the wound to be making even light work with the arm torture. The old man picked up his train of thought as though he were reading his mind.

"While we're on the subject…" he pulled the bandage off with one jerk, revealing it in the process to be a gray bandanna, and began to tie it around his forehead. The newcomer, meanwhile, was too busy marveling at the largely unmarred flesh on his right shoulder. There was a small, circular scar where the wound ought to have been, but it looked no different than any of the other minor scars he'd sustained over the years.

"How long was I out for?" he asked, dreading the answer. The old man had finished somehow tying the bandana with only one hand and replied,

"Not long. 'Bout a day and a half."

"Bullshit. I'm no doctor, but a day and a half doesn't close a damn arrow wound."

"Huh. Doctor, eh?" a slow smile spread across the old man's face, "That could work. But to answer your question, you've just learned the first law of your new home: don't get hung up on what things can or can't do. How are you feeling?" The newcomer paused, looking over himself for a few moments.

His shirt was off, but he could see it lying on the floor across the room. Other than his general confusion, he felt remarkably good. He'd expected the tropical environment to be playing hell with his sinuses, but every breath came through unimpeded. And if he'd really been asleep for a day and a half without food or water, he'd expected to feel a lot hungrier than he was, or thirstier than he'd been before drinking from the canteen.

All in all, he felt good. Better than he had any right to, in fact. Judging from the smirk still stuck on the old man's face, he seemed to know what conclusion he'd come to.

"While we're at it, how'd you like the water?" the old man sloshed the contents of the canteen, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink himself, "Taste anything different about it?"

"Did you-?"

"Oh, lord, no," the old man shook his head, "I didn't do anything to it. It's just…" he trailed off, eyes glazing slightly, "…every drop tastes as good as if you'd been dying of thirst. The air feels as refreshin' as if you were on an adrenaline high. And your shoulder there," he gestured with the canteen to the newcomer's largely pristine shoulder, "Fixed itself better than new."

"That's just the way things are around here," the old man pushed open room's only door, letting in a flood of blinding sunlight, "My name's Preacher. Not my real name, but me 'n Sharps decided against using those. Reminds us a bit too much of where we used to be instead of where we are."

"Welcome to the island, Doc. Heaven and hell in one convenient package."

**Whew. Now I can finally start referring to characters by name. Chapter three will have details of Preacher and Sharps' setup, and some more crash-courses in survival for Doc. R&R, anon accepted. **


End file.
